The scene was one of supernatural weirdness. Tall, fantastic mountains
reared their seamed peaks over a dreary waste of igneous rock and
burned-out lava beds. Deep lakes of black water stood motionless as
glass under frowning, honeycombed crags, from which ever and anon
dropped crumbled masses with a sullen plunge. Vegetation there was
none. Bitter cold reigned and ridges of black and shapeless rocks cut
the horizon on all sides. An extinct volcano loomed against a purple
sky, black as night and old as the world.
The firmament was studded with immense stars that shone with a wan and
spectral light. Orion's belt hung high above.
Aldebaran faintly shone millions of miles away, and the earth gleamed
like a new-risen moon with a lurid, blood-like glow.
On a lofty mountain that hung toppling above an ink-black sea stood a
dwelling built of stone. From its solitary window came a bright light
that gleamed upon the misshapen rocks. The door opened and two men
emerged locked in a deadly struggle.
They swayed and twisted upon the edge of the precipice, now one
gaining the advantage, now the other.
Strong men they were, and stone rolled from their feet into the valley
as each strove to overcome the other.
At length one prevailed. He seized his opponent, and raising him high
above his head, hurled him into space.
The vanquished combatant shot through the air like a stone from a
catapult in the direction of the luminous earth.
"That's three of 'em this week," said the Man in the Moon as he lit a
cigarette and turned back into the house. "Those New York interviewers
are going to make me tired if they keep this thing up much longer."